ART.QTA 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Hyman  Bradofsky  collection 
of  amateur  journalism 

The  Peter  and  Rosell  Harvey  Memorial  Fund 

The  Roger  Levenson  Memorial  Fund 

and  Bancroft  Various  Donors 


v 


PARISIAN 


SKETCHES, 


AND   OTHER  STORIES. 


BY  STANTON  S.  MILLS, 


Author  of "••  Love  vs*  Money"  "Church  Sociables"  "The 

Pretty  Soubrette?  "  What  People  Think  of  Us, 

"  The  Heart  Bowed  Down,"  Etc. 


ST.  Louis,  Mo.: 

FRANK  L.  SEAVP:R,  PUBLISHER. 

1879- 


Jo  ALEX.  ]V.  PINGWALL, 
MILWAUKEE,  Wis., 


THIS  WORK  is 
j^RATEF^NALLY       JNSCF^IBED, 

BY  THE    AUTHOR, 
AS   AN 

HUMBLE  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OF  ESTEEM 
FOR  A  TEUE  FRIEND. 


PREFACE. 


To  write  a  book  is  one  thing ;  to  sell  it 
is  another.  And  as  far  as  literature  of 
every  description  is  concerned,  I  unhesi- 
tantly  assert  that  it  requires  a  great  deal 
more  talent,  more  perseverance,  and  more 
cheek  to  accomplish  the  latter  than  it 
does  the  former,  public  opinion  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding. 

With  especial  reference  to  amateur 
literature  it  will  be  readily  admitted,  by 
all  who  have  tested  it,  that  this  theory  is 
eminently  a  practical  one  ;  and  fully  rec 
ognizing  this  fact  I  am  conscious  of  a  feel 
ing,  in  the  publication  of  "Parisian 
Sketches"  in  book  form,  that  the  work 


6  PREFACE. 

will  fail  as  a  bonanza  of  wealth  or  fame. 
This  result,  however,  is  robbed  of  half 
its  terror  when  it  is  remembered  that  my 
ambitions  are  more  for  a  compilation  of 
my  works,  for  my  friends  and  myself, 
than  for  any  interest  which  the  amateur 
public  might  manifest. 

Probably  no  one,  into  whose  hands  this 
volume  may  fall,  will  be  more  impressed 
with  its  failings  than  the  author  himself, 
who,  realizing  his  chief  error  to  be  in  an 
endeavor  to  write  of  that  which  he  knows 
absolutely  nothing,  can  only  offer  the 
apology  that  the  man  who  is  not  familiar 
with  your  subject  will  never  see  your 
faults.  Hence  critics  can  do  no  less  than 
grant  me  that  lenientcy  bestowed  on 
many  others  who  have  taken  the  same 

liberty  as 

STANTON  S.  MILLS. 


PARISIAN  SKETCHES. 


ALLEN  ATHERTON'S  RECEIPT. 


Paris  was  never  before  so  thronged  with 
Americans  as  during  the  year  1873.  The 
hotels  were  densely  packed  with  foreign 
visitors  attracted  thither  by  the  pomp  and 
splendor  of  this  beautiful  and  dangerous 
metropolis.  Among  others  from  New  York 
were  Allen  Atherton  and  Guy  Rodman, 
the  former  a  junior  member  of  a  large 
mercantile  establishment  of  that  city,  a 
young  man  of  probably  twenty-five  years^ 
not  particularly  handsome,  but  accom 
plished,  pleasing  and  gentlemanly  in 
every  particular;  a  most  highly  esteemed 


10  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

member  of  society,  and  considered  an  ex 
cellent  example  of  those  sterling  quali 
ties,  sound  judgement  and  good  sense. 
They  were  on  a  pleasure  seeking  tour, 
where  away  from  business,  they  could, 
for  a  time,  doff  the  mantle,  Wall  street 
care  and  anxiety,  and  enjoy  the  excite 
ment  of  a  season  on  the  continent,  con 
sequently  in  a  short  time  after  their  arri 
val  at  Liverpool  they  were  among  the 
guests  located  at  the  Hotel  DeChambri, 
Paris. 

A  few  weeks  after  this  latter  event, 
young  Atherton  and  Rodman  were  prom 
enading  the  grand  balcony  of  the  hotel, 
each  absorbed  in  noting  the  magnificent 
toilets  and  beauties  of  fashion  centered 
in  that  wealthy  throng,  when  a  lady,  evi 
dently  of  French  parentage,  a  most  love 
ly,  petite  and  saucy  little  creature  as  ever 
existed,  withdrew  her  delicate  jeweled 


ALLAN  ATHERTON'S  RECEIPT.          11 

hand  from  the  arm  of  the  gentleman,  with 
whome  she  was  walking,  and  turning  to 
Allan,  smilingly  said : 

"Monsieur  Atherton,  ^Giralfle-GiralflV 
has  perfectly  bewitched  me  and  endeavor 
as  I  will  I  utterly  fail  to  impress  papa 
with  the  slightest  degree  of  enthusiasm, 
and  for  an  hour  I  have  been  trying  in 
vain  to  convince  him  that  if  he  should 
only  hear  M'lle  Duchatel  he  would  return 
home  in  extacies." 

"You  have  never  heard  the  opera  then, 
Monsieur  DeVarville,"  observed  Ather 
ton,  as  M'lle  unfastening  a  flower  from 
her  hair,  placed  it  in  the  button  hole  of 
his  coat. 

"Thanks,"  continued  Allan,  as  he  turn 
ed  to  the  beauty  at  his  side,  "I  shall  con 
sider  this  an  acceptance  to  my  intended 
proposal  to  visit  the  opera  to-night.  What 
say  you  ?" 


12  PAKISTAN    SKETCHES. 

uWith  all  my  heart;  then  papa  prepare 
to  hear  a  fresh  budget  of  compliments  on 
the  morrow  of  M'lle  Duchatel,  for  I  am 
confident  Monsieur  Atherton  will  prove 
as  great  an  admirer  of  her  as  I." 

Rodman  and  Monsieur  DeVarville  had 
by  this  time  began  an  animated  discus 
sion  of  the  merits  of  France  and  America. 
Atherton's  quick  eye  saw  an  opportunity 
to  gain  a  delightful  promenade  with  the 
vivacious  M'lle,  who,  in  the  few  weeks  of 
their  acquaintance,  had  so  woven  the  web 
of  love  around  his  heart,  that,  struggle  as 
he  would,  he  found  himself  powerless  to 
break  asunder  its  fibers,  gave  her  his  arm 
and  they  passed  into  the  parlors. 

The  opera  over,  Allan  and  his  beautiful 
companion  were  soon  seated  in  their  car 
riage,  being  driven  slowly  homewards. 
As  the  beams  of  the  shinning  moon  fell 
on  MMle  DeVarville's  countenance,  im- 


ALLAN  ATHERTON'S  RECEIPT.          13 

parting  a  most  facinating  appearance  to 
her  dark,  winsome  features,  she  seemed  a 
perfect  angel  to  poor  Athertori  who  silent 
ly  sat  admiring  her  beauty.  With  a  rip 
pling  laugh  M'lle  DeVarville  broke  the 
stillness,  saying: 

Monsieur  Atherton  appears  unusually 
melancholy  to-night;  has  he  also  lost  his 
heart  to  the  handsome  prima  donna?" 

Atherton  looked  up  and  gazing  into  the 
depths  of  her  lustrous  eyes  replied. 

"No,  Pauline,  I  must  call  you  that,  but 
you  are  the  theif.  This  visit  to  the  opera 
was  but  a  ruse  of  mine  to  secure  an  oppor 
tunity  of  telling  you  how  dear  you  have 
become  to  me,  in  short  to  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife." 

There  was  no  murmuring  of  undying 
affection,  no  falling  on  his  knees  and  vow 
ing  life  was  chaos  without  her,  no  foolish 
stage  nonsense  in  Allan  Atherton's  pro- 


14  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

posal,  but  a  straight,  honest  and  manly 
assertion. 

How  tenderly  he  took  her  little  hand  in 
his  and  anxiously  awaited  her  reply. 

His  request  had  not  the  slightest  effect 
on  her  for  in  a  most  aggravating  manner 
she  gave  him  her  answer. 

"Why,  Monsieur  Atherton,  I  like  and 
esteem  you  as  deeply  as  I  do  or  ever  can 
love  any  one  and  I  would  as  soon  become 
the  wife  of  you  as  another;  but  papa, 
what  will  he  say?  Will  you  ask  him? 
And  to  console  you,  you  dear,  good  fel 
low,  I  hope  he  will  consent." 

"Nothing  would  please  me  better,"  Al 
lan  fervently  responded. 

"Don't,  for  pity's  sake,  ask  him  unless 
he  is  in  a  good  humor,  for  of  late  he  has 
been  terribly  vexed  at  something." 

"I  will  take  good  care  not  to  anger 
him." 


ALLAN  ATHERTON'S  RECEIPT.          15 

On  their  arrival  at  the  hotel  they  were 
met  in  the  parlor  by  Ninette,  M'lle  De 
Varville's  waiting  maid,  who  while  re 
moving  the  elegant  opera  cloak  of  her 
mistress  succeeded  in  placing  a  note  in 
Atherton's  hand  with  a  glance  that  clear 
ly  signified  the  secrecy  desired.  In  a  few 
momonts  he  bade  them  au  revoir  and  re 
tired  to  his  own  apartments  where  he 
took  occasion  to  peruse  the  note,  the  con 
tents  of  which  aroused  a  train  of  curious 
thoughts  in  his  mind. 

"MONSIEUR  ATHERTON. — You  are  too  good, 
too  noble,  and  too  generous  to  be  permitted  to  go 
on  loving  M'lle  as  you  do.  You  will  regret  it 
one  day  for  she  is  unworthy  of  you  and  seeks 
only  your  fortune." 

There  was  no  signature,  but  Atherton 
knew  Ninette's  writing  too  well  to  doubt 
who  the  author  was,  and  the  following  day 
he  asked  her  to  explain.  She  could  or 
would  not  reveal  anything  farther  than 


16  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

she  had  in  the  letter.  A  secret  convic 
tion,  however,  led  him  to  believe  the  girl 
foolish  enough  to  construe  the  little  com 
pliments  and  attentions  he  frequently 
paid  her  in  a  far  different  meaning  from 
the  one  intended.  He  acknowledged  to 
himself  that  he  had  acted  unwisely  in 
flattering  Ninette's  beauty.  The  more 
he  thought  of  her  singular  conduct  the 
more  he  regreted  his  hasty  proposal  to 
M'lle,  and  had  it  not  been  for  his  strict 
principles  of  honor  he  might  have  taken 
steps  to  have  broken  off  the  engagement. 
At  any  rate  he  half  wished  it  had  been 
Ninette  instead  of  Pauline.  uAh  !  well," 
he  thought,  "if  Ninette  has  fallen  in  love 
with  me  it  is  my  own  fault,  not  hers,"  and 
he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  her 
jeatously  which  prompted  the  writing  of 
the  letter  and  consequently  put  no  confi 
dence  in  its  warning. 


ALLANS   ATHEKTON'S  RECEIPT.          17 

With  a  grave  forboding  of  evil  Allan 
presented  himself,  the  following  day.  be 
fore  M.  DeVarville,  and  asked  his  consent 
to  the  marriage. 

"What !  Would  you  marry  the  daught 
er  of  a  bankrupt  ?  I  am  hourly  expecting 
the  intelligence  of  our  downfall,  and  un 
less  aid  from  some  source  arrives  soon,  we 
are  ruined.  Already  I  am  preparing  to 
depart  for  Marseilles,  and,  upon  my  arri 
val  there  expect  to  find  myself  without 
a  franc  in  the  wrorld.  Now,  sir,  you  un 
derstand  my  position.  Do  you  still  wish 
to  marry  my  daughter?" 

Instantly  Atherton's  mind  called  up  the 
the  words  of  Ninette,  but  the  man  appear 
ed  so  earnest,  he  at  once  dispelled  his 
thoughts.  Here  was  a  chance  for  him.  to 
show  his  love  for  Pauline  by  assisting  her 
father  in  his  financial  distress  and  then 
secure  his  approval  of  their  marriage. 


18  I'AKISIAM    SKETCHES. 

"What  are  your  liabilities?" 

"Our  resources  are  equal  to  our  indebt 
edness,  if  it  comes  to  that.  Our  assign 
ment,  my  partner  informs  me,  will  be 
made  in  favor  of  a  London  firm,  for  twen 
ty  thousand  francs,  which  must  be  paid 
in  three  days." 

"Can  you  not  borrow?" 

"Our  friends  are  as  much  in  need  of 
money  as  ourselves,  so  hope  in  that  di 
rection  is  useless/' 

Allan  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
said: 

"I  will  advance  you  the  sum  and  your 
daughter  shall  be  my  receipt.  I  do  this, 
not  as  an  inducement  to  gain  your  conseiu 
to  our  marriage  but  to  show  my  love  for 
Pauline  by  assisting  you  in  your  present 
e  m  b  arr  as  s  meat." 

kvl  leave  to-night  for  Marseilles.  Give 
me  the  checks  tor  that  amount,  and  in 


ALLAN    ATHERTON?S    RECEIPT.  19 

thirty  days  it  shall  be  returned  with  in 
terest,  and  as  to  Pauline,  gain  her  con 
sent  and  you  have  mine." 

Allen  immediately  drew  a  check  for  the 
twenty  thousand  francs,  and  handed  it  to 
Monsieur  DeVarville,  who,  with  all  the 
flourish  of  a  true  born  frenchman,  thank 
ed  him  over  and  over  again. 

Atherton  was  the  happiest  man  in  ex 
istence  for  the  few  following  days,  but 
his  happiness  had  a  sudden  termination 
on  glancing  over  the  contents  of  a  hasty 
letter  left  by  MTle  DeVarville,  who,  be 
fore  Ninette  really  knew  what  was  tran 
spiring,  packed  her  trunks,  and  announc 
ed  her  determination  of  visiting  her  papa. 

"MONSIEUR  ATHERTON. — Papa  has  sent  for  me. 
Allow  me  to  prescribe  a  remedy  for  your  wound 
ed  heart  and  purse,  for  you  will  never  see  dear 
papa  or  myself  again.  Marry  Ninette,  for  she 
loves  you  with  all  her  dear  little  heart  and  will 
prove  a  more  valuable  receipt  for  your  twenty 
thousand  francs,  than  myself.  Content  yourself 


20  PA  R I S I  A  N     S  K  KTC 1 1 ES. 

with  knowing  that  you  are  not  the  first  Ameri 
can  who  has  fallen  a  victim  to  the  beauty  of 
PAULINE  DEVARVILLE." 

Atherton,  like  the  cool  business  man  he 
was,  folded  the  letter  and  laid  it  away. 
Ninette's  bright  eyes  opened  with  sur 
prise  and  astonishment  when  he  informed 
her  that  she  had  lost  her  mistress  through 
him. 

"She  has  gone  to  her  papa,"'  with  a  bit 
ter  emphasis  on  the  word  papa,  "and  will 
never  return  She  also  leaves  you  as  my 
receipt  for  twenty  thousand  francs  loaned 
her  dear  papa  a  few  days  since,  In  other 
words  she  requests  me  to  marry  you, 
which  I  will  only  be  too  happy  to  do,  for 
I  know  you  love  me  for  myself  and  not 
for  my  money.11 

Ninette,  in  her  gentle,  child-like  man 
ner  consented  and  ere  the  fortnight  ex 
pired,  Atherton  and  his  beautiful  little 
bride,  accompanied  by  their  faithful 


ALLAN  ATHERTON'S  RECEIPT.         21 

Rodman,  who  by  Allen's  experience  had 
vowed  eternal  allegiance  to  celibacy, 
were  on  their  way  to  Baden-Baden. 

New  York  society,  a  few  months  later, 
was  surprised  to  learn  that  Mr.  Atherton 
was  expected  home  soon,  and  that  he  was 
bringing  with  him  a  bride,  which  fact 
seemed  to  have  a  depressing  tendency 
in  the  matrimonial  market  of  what  is 
called  "good  society.'- 


WLLE  V AND  ORE. 


A   PARISIAN  SKETCH. 


A  lovely  little  creature  whose  spark 
ling  laughing  eyes  and  sweet,  wiasome 
smile  greets  you  as  you  pass.  A  musical 
voice,  in  a  pleading,  modest  manner,  asks: 
u  Would  Monsieur  like  some  flowers?" 

The  Rue  De  Orm  presents  a  perpetual 
scene  of  commotion,  and  to  the  eye  of 
strangers,  proves  a  wonderful  source  of 
thought  and  study.  Here  from  the  dawn 
ing  of  one  morn  to  the  bright  rays  of  anoth 
er,  appear  the  thousand  different  phases  of 
a  life  spent  in  that  beautiful  and  dangerous 
French  metropolis,  Paris.  Style,  luxury 
rmd  elegance  are  there  beheld  mingling 


M'LLE  VANDORE.  23 

in  the  vast  throng  of  people  with  adver 
sity,  poverty  and  beggary.  Here  the  tat 
tered  -and  ragged  populace  jostle  their 
way  among  fashion,  wealth  and  nobility. 

The  pretty  flower  girl  (we  never 
heard  of  a  flower  girl  that  was  not  pret 
ty  )  who  is  daily  and  until  the  closing  of 
operas,  banquettes,  feasts  and  public 
amusements,  late  at  night  to  be  seen, 
waiting,  her  lap  full  of  tulips,  jessamines, 
marigolds,  in  fact  all  American  flowers, 
and  often  standing  on  the  huge  stone 
steps  leading  to  the  grand  entrance  of  the 
Theatre  Royal  is  the  florist  of  all  Ameri 
can  visitors 

Young  Neville,  the  son  of  a  wealthly 
banker,  doing  business  in  a  thriving  city 
of  New  York,  was  enjoying  his  first  sea 
son  on  the  continent,  and  by  his  frequent 
visits  to  M'lle  Vandore  for  flowers,  had 
discovered  in  this  simple,  childlike  girl, 


24  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

a  person  witty,  well  educated  and  refined 
to  a  marked  degree.  He  it  was  to  whom 
she  addressed  the  words: 

"  Would  Monsieur,  like  some  flowers  ?  '• 
Purchasing  a  pale  white    rose    with    a 
dainty  leaf  attached,  he  fastened  it  to  the 
lapel  of  his  coat,  and  passed  into  the   lob 
by  of  the  Theatre,  thence  to  his  box. 

The  curtain  had  just  gone  down  on 
the  fourth  act  of  that  beautiful  French 
drama,  uThe  Marble  Heart,"  when  Ne 
ville,  feeling  fatigued,  rose  from  his  seat 
and  leisurly  strolled  into  the  salon.  The 
night  was  quite  warm  and  the  many  cool, 
shady  seats  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  gar 
den  at  the  rear,  was  a  great  temptation. 
He  passed  out  and  finding  a  vacant  seat 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  near  the 
great  iron  gateway  which  formed  an  exit 
to  the  Rue  La  Paris,  he  sank  lazily  into 
it.  Scarcely  had  he  seated  himself  when 


M'LLE  VANDORE.  25 

the  gate  was  thrown  suddenly  open  and 
M'lle  Vandore,  in  a  complete  state  of  ex 
haustion,  tottered  through  and  sank  help 
lessly  at  his  feet,  gasping  :  i'Oh,  Monsieur, 
you  will  not  let  them  harm  me  I  know  P 

"Why,  poor  child,  what  has  happened," 
asked  Neville  as  he  handed  her  a  glass  of 
water  from  the  beautiful  fountain  at  his 
side. 

"I  have  been  so  frightened  by  some 
bad,  cruel  men  who  sought  to  rob  me  of 
my  few  francs.  They  pretended  to  be  ill, 
and  came  to  me  as  I  was  waiting  for  the 
Theatre  to  close,'  and  asked  for  money.  I 
replied  that  I  had  but  little  and  needed 
that  worse  than  they,  whereupon  one  of 
them  grasped  me  by  the  waist  and  en- 
deavered  to  stop  my  calling  for  assistance 
by  placing  a  cloth  over  my  mouth.  With 
a  super-human  effort  I  succeeded  in  free 
ing  myself  from  his  hold  and  fled.  They 


26  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

followed  me  to  the  gateway  there,  then 
suddenly  stopped." 

She  seemed  greatly  excited  and  could 
with  difficulty  relate  the  particulars  of  her 
escape. 

uYou  are  safe  now,  and  if  you  will  per 
mit  me  I  will  gladly  escort  you  to  your 
home.'1 

"Monsieur  is  very  kind,  and  we  will  go 
at  once." 

As  they  passed  from  Rue  La  Paris  to 
Rue  de  Orm  they  came  suddenly  upon 
two  men  standing  on  the  corner  of  the 
street.  At  the  sight  of  them  the  girl 
tremblingly  whispered: 

"Those  are  the  men.*' 

Neville  turned,  and,  by  the  light  of  the 
dimly  shining  street  lamp  could  see  their 
faces,  which  were  perfect  types  of  roughs 
and  villians. 

The    girl  directed    the  way,   and   from 


M'LLE  VANDOKE.  27 

street  to  street  they  passed  until  Neville 
found  himself  in  a  quarter  of  Paris  he  had 
never  before  visited.  At  last  they  enter 
a  dismal  appearing  street,  or  rather  alley, 
devoid  of  pavements  or  lamps.  Here  the 
darkness  became  so  intense  he  was  una 
ble  to  discern  the  way  a  yard  before.  He 
began  to  experience  a  keen  sense  of  uu- 
easiness  and  a  suspicion  took  possession 
of  his  mind  that  he  was  being  led  into  a 
trap.  Before  his  thoughts  were  fairly 
clear  he  suddenly  felt  his  arms  pinioned 
to  his  side  by  a  rope  being  thrown  over 
his  head,  and  the  gleam  of  a  revolver 
flashed  in  the  darkness,  while  a  hoarse 
voice  hissed  in  his  ear: 

uNot  one  word !  Make  the  slightest 
noise  and  you  are  a  dead  man." 

Not  daring  to  utter  a  sound,  Neville 
turned  to  see  what  effect  this  remarkable 
occurrence  had  on  M'lle  Vandore.  She 


28  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

was  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  he  was  alone 
in  the  hands  of  men  whom  he  well  knew 
would  take  his  life  should  he  breathe 
aloud.  They  bound  and  blind  folded  him, 
then  the  trio  moved  a  short  distance  and 
Neville  was  placed  in  a  carriage ;  after  a 
drive  of  a  few  moment,  during  which  time 
not  a  word  was  spoken  by  the  occupants, 
the  vehicle  stopped  and  they  alighted. 
Here  Neville  was  taken  into  a  rear  room 
of  a  low,  obscure  building  and  the  band 
age,  covering  his  eyes,  removed.  Glanc 
ing  first  about  the  the  room  he  beheld  a 
neat  and  plainly  furnished  apartment. 
The  two  men,  who  until  now  were  dis 
guised,  removed  their  masks,  and,  to  Ne 
ville's  utter  astonishment,  he  immediate 
ly  recognized  them  to  be  the  men  from 
whom  he  had  but  a  short  time  before  res 
cued  the  handsome  flower-girl.  Neville 
waited  for  them  to  break  the  silence. 


M'LLE  VANDORE.  29 

"Can  you  conceive  our  object  in  thus 
bringing'you  here,  Monsuire  ?" 

"I  confess  that  I  am  unable." 

"Monsieur,  you  are  rich,  and  we  are 
poor.  We  have  taken  this  method  of  ob 
taining  what  valuables  you  posess.  Your 
money  is  our  object,  not  your  life.  We 
must  have  one  or  both.  If  you  consent 
to  deliver  to  us  the  wealth  you  now  car 
ry,  you  shall,  within  the  hour  be  a  free 
man;  refuse,  and  you  will  never  see  the 
rising  of  to-morrow's  sun.  Consider  our 
proposition  well." 

"What  little  I  have  at  present  you  are 
welcome  to  on  those  conditions,"  was  Ne 
ville's  decision.  What  else  could  he  do. 
He  fully  realized  how  useless  it  would  be 
to  resist. 

"Will  you  tell  me  if  M'lle  Vandore  is 
an  accomplish  of  yours,"  he  continued. 

"We  commit  no  one  but  ourselves.   She 


30  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

is  far  more  capable  of  taking  care  of  her 
self,  than  you  are  of  your  wealth,"  replied 
the  man  evasively. 

"I  have  a  suspicion  that  her  part  of 
these  proceedings  were  bnt  a  ruse  to  lead 
me  into  your  path.  Here  are  the  only 
articles  of  value,  together  with  what  mon 
ey  I  have  about  my  person,"  said  Neville 
as  he  handed  the  man  his  wallet,  watch 
and  jewels,  with  as  much  self-possession 
as  though  he  was  paying  a  just  and  hon 
est  debt. 

"You  are  wise.  We  will  once  more 
blind-fold  you  and  lead  you  to  the  en 
trance  of  Rue  De  Orm,  when  you  will  be 
at  liberty  to  remove  the  covering  from 
your  eyes,  which  will  require  some  time, 
during  which  we  shall  make  good  our 
escape.  Your  life  depends  upon  your  con 
duct.  The  first  attempt  to  attract  atten 
tion  will  meet  with  death." 


M'LLE  VANDORE.  31 

In  a  few  moments  they  had  left  the 
house.  After  walking  a  great  distance 
the  men  suddenly  left  his  side,  one  say 
ing: 

^This  is  Eue  De  Orm." 

Neville  could  not  determine,  so  nois- 
lessly  did  they  glide  away,  the  direction 
they  took,  and  by  the  time  he  had  remov 
ed  the  cloth  from  his  eyes,  they  were  far 
beyond  the  hopes  of  ever  seeing  them. 

The  following  evening  Neville  wended 
his  steps  to  the  Theatre  Royal,  expecting 
to  find  M'lle  Vandore  at  her  usual  post. 
She  was  missing.  Then  it  was  he  became 
fully  convinced  that  he  had  fallen  a  vic- 
time  to  one  of  the  many  ingenious  de 
vices,  only  to  be  invented  by  a  French 
man,  for  robbing  foreigners. 

On  returning  to  the  hotel  where  he  was 
stopping,  Neville  narrated  his  adventures 
of  the  foregoing  night  to  the  proprietor, 


32  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

a  genial  and  whole-souled  Frenchman, 
and  asked  his  opinion. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  playfully  remarked 
the  landlord,  "you  will  look  in  vain  for 
the  beautiful  florist.  It  is  as  plain  as  the 
nose  on  your  handsome  face.  Her  fleeing 
to  you  for  protection  was  but  a  ruse  to 
get  you  to  offer  yourself  as  an  escort,  and 
you  swallowed  the  bait,  like  the  innocent 
American  you  are,  hook  and  all,  thus 
walking  into  a  cleverly  planned  strategem 
with  its  chief  opperfttor.  It  is  the  same 
old  story,  American  galantry  and  French 
cunning. 

"I  have  learned  a  lesson  that  I  w^ill 
never  forget  at  any  rate,"  observed  Ne 
ville  as  he  passed  into  the  salon. 

The  hotel  proprietor  was  right.  Ne 
ville  saw  no  more  of  M'lle  Vandore,  al 
though  he  searched  the  great  city  from 
one  end  to  the  other. 


THE  SPECTER    OF  CHATEAU 
DeCOURCEY. 


A     PARISIAN   SKETCH, 


ONE  never  becomes  thoroughly  ac 
quainted  with  the  mysteries  and  miseries 
of  Parisian  Life  until  by  some  fortunate 
combination  of  circumstances  he  drifts  in 
to  the  newspaper  fraternity.  Here  he 
he  finds  an  occupation  which  leads  him 
through  the  highways  and  byways ;  gives 
him  a  deeper  insight  to  the  hidden  and 
public  lives  of  Parisians,  the  chief  ele- 
ements  of  which  he  soon  discovers  to  be 
a  curious  mixture  of  trickery,  romance 
and  fashion,  than  is  obtainable  in  any 
any  other  calling  he  may  adopt.  It  is 
somewhat  amusing  to  observe  the  pres- 


34  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

ence  of  these  characteristics  of  the  genu 
ine  Frenchman  wherever  one  may  go. 
The  rag-picker  and  the  nobleman  have 
alike  a  fondness  for  romance,  trickery  and 
fashion.  Tell  to  the  genuine  Parisian  a 
tale  of  romance,  sprinkled  with  a  trifle 
love  and  a  vast  amount  of  knavery,  and 
you  will  have  pleased  his  fancy  beyond 
anything  else  you  could  have  done  for 
him,  unless  it  be  to  introduce  him  to  your 
wife,  especially  should  she  happen  to  be  a 
charmingly  handsome  woman.  The  news 
paper  reporter  is  no  exception  to  the  av 
erage  Parisian,  and  equally  delights  in 
detailing  the  particulars  of  a  little  romant 
ic  episode,  with  his  readers  in  a  perusal 
of  them.  How  eagerly  he  watches  the 
result  of  any  mysterious  chain  of  events 
which  come  under  his  observation,  in 
hopes  of  obtaining  a  rare  treat  for  his 
readers,  in  the  shape  of  some  startling 


SPECTER  OF  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  35 

developments  concerning  a  newly  dis 
covered  bit  of  romance. 

The  Specter  of  Chateau  DeCourcy  was 
a  mystery  that  puzzled  all  Paris  and  per 
haps  would  have  remained  a  profound  one 
to  the  present  time,  had  it  not  been  for 

Achile  Duval,  a  reporter  for  the , 

who  discovered  and  published  an  account, 
toned  and  polished  to  an  extremely 
French  degree,  of  the  mysterious  Specter. 

Not  many  years  ago  there  came  to  Paris 
an  apparently  very  wealthy  and  positive 
ly  very  eccentric  Frenchman,  named  De 
Courcy,  who  purchased  a  lovely  little  vil 
la  at  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  and  called 
it  "Chateau  DeCourey.' •  He  brought  with 
him  an  only  and  accomplished  daughter, 
whose  extreme  beauty  and  devotion  to 
her  aged  lather  excited  no  little  curiosity. 
From  the  moment  of  their  advent  the 
Chateau  became  enveloped  in  a  shroud  of 


36  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

mystery,  inasmuch  as  no  one  knew  from 
whence  Monsieur  and  M'lle  DeCourcy 
came,  and  the  most  rigid  efforts  to  discov 
er  the  slightest  particulars  of  their  past 
history  proved  futile.  They  made  no  ac 
quaintances  and  obstinately  refused  to 
mingle  in  any  society  whatever.  With 
the  exception  of  a  few  servants  they  lived 
all  alone,  and  were  rarely  seen  save  when 
when  driving  along  the  Boulevards,  al 
ways  together.  No  wonder  the  Parisian 
appetite  for  romance  found  in  these 
strange  people  excellent  subjects  for  a 
vast  amount  of  gossip. 

A  year  went  by  and  all  Paris  still  won 
dered  more  and  more  who  M.  and  M'lle 
DeCourcy  were. 

This  formed  the  first  part  of  Achille  Du- 
val's  tale  of  romance.  The  one  which 
followed,  terrible  as  it  was,  still  left  Paris 
in,  if  possible,  a  deeper  wonderment. 


SPECTER  OF  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  37 

One  beautiful  morning  the  Chateau, 
usually  so  calm  and  quiet,  presented  a 
scene  of  excitement  never  to  be  forgotten. 
The  servants  were  hurrying  to  and  fro  in 
a  terrible  state  of  agitation.  Passers-by 
were  stopped  and  conducted  into  the 
house,  soon  emerging  with  awe  stricken 
and  terrified  countenances,  telling  only 
too  plainly  that  something  dreadful  had 
occurred.  In  a  few  hours  all  Paris  was 
made  acquainted  with  the  particulars  of 
the  great  tragedy  at  the  Chateau. 

Pale  as  death  Mons.  DeCourcy  slowly 
paced  the  hallway,  while  from  his  eyes 
was  emitted  that  peculiar  gleam  which 
betrays  a  dethroned  reason.  He  seemed 
utterly  unconscious  of  what  was  transpir 
ing  around  him,  paying  not  the  least  at 
tention  to  the  many  persons  who  stopped 
to  watch  his  singular  actions.  In  a  small 
but  elegantly  furnished  boudoir,  a  piti- 


38  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

ful  sight  met  the  eye.  Lying,  on  the  soft 
brussels  carpet,  with  the  paleness  of  death 
on  her  beautifnl  countenance,  was  M'lle 
DeCourdy,  her  long,  dark  hair  falling 
loosely  about  her  fair,  white  shoulders. 
Death  had  accomplished  its  work  quietly 
and  quickly. 

The  servants  were  questioned  and  the 
terrible  life  secret  of  Mons.  and  M'lle  De- 
Courcy  revealed.  It  was  a  long  story 
which  they  had  gathered,  little  by  little, 
from  conversations  with  their  master  and 
mistress.  For  years  Monsieur  DeCourcy 
had  been  the  victim  of  a  mild  and  harm 
less  state  of  insanity,  during  which  he  had 
conceived  the  singular  idea  that  he  and 
M'lle  were  proof  against  the  poisionous 
effects  of  all  deadly  drugs,  and  had  re 
peatedly  endeavored  to  illustrate  to  his 
daughter  that  they  could  not  die,  by  at 
tempting  to  induce  her  to  drink  of  various 


SPECTER  OF  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  39 

mixtures  he  would  prepare.  How  care 
fully  had  the  poor  girl  guarded  the  secret 
of  her  father's  insanity,  only  to  become 
the  victim  of  a  cruel,  untimely  death  at 
his  hands.  The  usual  ceremonies  of  the 
law  were  gone  through  with  and  M'lle 
DeCourcy  quietly  laid  to  rest,  while  her 
father,  adjudged  insame,  was  sent  to  an 
asylum  at  Marseilles.  Thus  the  second 
part  of  Achile  Duval's  novel  was  com 
plete. 

Another  year  had  passed  and  the  Chat 
eau  DeCourcy,  through  the  agency  of  an 
administrator  had  passed  into  the  hands 
of  new  tenants,  and  with  then  came 
another  and  a  deeper  mystery.  "Surely,"' 
said  Duval,  in  one  of  his  articles,  "the 
Chateau  was  doomed  to  become  a  contin 
ual  scene  of  wonderment  to  the  end  of 
its  existence."  Mons.  Sartory,  the  new 
occupant  of  the  Chateau,  used  every  en- 


40  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

deavor  to  hush  the  whisperings  that  were 
being  indulged  concerning  the  "Specter 
of  Chateau  De  Courcy,"  but  without  avail. 
In  a  few  weeks  after  his  arrival  all  Paris 
was  teeming  with  excitement  over  the 
pale,  sad  face  that  nightly  appeared  at  the 
window  of  poor  M'lle  DeCourcy?s  bou 
doir.  The  apartment  was  never  occupied 
thereafter,  and  Mons.  Sartorys,  supersti 
tious  as  he  was,  would  permit  no  effort  to 
be  made  towards  discovering  the  cause  of 
the  strange  apparation,  placing  the  ut 
most  confidence  in  the  theory  that  it  was 
the  spirit  of  the  ill-fated  girl.  On  one  or 
two  occasions  he  had  been  prevailed  upon 
to  allow  persons  to  occupy  the  chamber 
over  night,  in  hopes  of  ascertaining  some 
clue  to  the  mystery.  No  one  appeared 
able  to  arrive  at  any  definite  conclusions 
other  than  that  the  apparition  seemed  to 
appear  and  disappear  leaving  no  trace  of 


SPECTEK  OF  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  41 

its  entrance  or  exit,  Achile  Duval,  vex 
ed  at  the  unsuccessful  efforts  of  others, 
determined  to  visit  the  Chateau,  and  there 
remain  until  he  could  explain  to  all  Paris 
the  true  cause  of  their  foolish  superstition. 
Mons.  Sartorys  received  him  courteously 
and  offered  every  assistance  in  his  power, 
but  ventured  to  remark  that  it  was  a  haz 
ardous  undertaking,  and  feared  would  ter 
minate  with  no  more  satisfactory  results 
than  others  had  achieved.  Achile  was 
shown  through  the  Chateau,  and  made  ac 
quainted  with  Mme.  and  M'lle  Sartorys, 
the  latter  being  a  beautiful  neice  of  the 
courteous  Frenchman.  M'lle,  unlike  her 
guardians,  seemed  pleased  at  Duval's  de 
termination,  and  expressed  a  sanguine 
hope  that  his  mission  would  prove  a  tri 
umphant  one. 

Every    preparation    being     perfected, 
Achile  bid  all  a  reluctant  good-night,  and 


42  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

retired  to  the  mysterious  room.  Only 
partially  disrobing,  he  lay  down  to  watch 
and  wait  the  appearance  of  the  spectre. 
The  moon  shown  brightly,  and  as  its  rays 
came  through  the  window  he  could  dis 
tinctly  see  every  object  in  the  room.  How 
long  he  waited  he  could  not  tell ;  for  be 
coming  weary  and  tired,  he  at  last  sank 
into  a  slight  slumber,  only  to  be  awaken- 
en  by  the  rushing  of  a  cold,  damp  gust  of 
wind  through  the  room.  The  moon  had 
sank  below  the  horizon  and  the  Chateau 
was  in  total  darkness.  He  felt  certain 
that  the  door  or  some  of  the  windows  to 
apartment  were  open,  and  on  examina 
tion,  to  his  utter  astonishment,  he  found 
that  the  door,  which  he  had  so  carefully 
locked,  was  indeed  open.  How  hard  he 
endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that  he 
was  not  frightened,  and  courageously  he 
again  closed  the  door,  this  time  placing 


SPECTER  OP  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  43 

a  chair  in  such  a  position,  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  open  the  door  without 
causing  a  crash  from  the  chair  falling  to 
the  floor.  Again  he  lay  down,  this  time 
with  a  determination  to  allow  nothing  to 
escape  him  unnoticed.  With  all  his  efforts 
to  keep  his  eyes  open  he  experienced,  as 
time  flew  by,  and  no  appearance  of  the 
specter,  a  sense  of  drowsiness  creeping 
over  him;  and  ere  he  was  aware  of  it  he 
had  fallen  into  a  broken  sleep.  With  a 
start  he  awoke  to  find  the  chair  removed 
and  the  door  again  standing  wide  open. 
If  he  was  frightened  before,  he  was  doubly 
so  now.  With  a  face  as  pale  as  death  and 
trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf,  he  closed 
the  door.  What  should  he  do  ?  His  first 
impulse  was  to  arouse  the  family,  but  up 
on  a  second  consideration  he  determined 
not  to  do  so.  He  had  came  there  for  the 
purpose  of  meeting  the  dreaded  spectre 


44  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

face  to  face,  and  he  would  fulfill  his  mis 
sion  come  what  might ;  and  with  this  re 
solve  he  drew  a  chair  to  the  window, 
threw  up  the  sash,  and  concluded  to  pass 
the  remainder  of  the  night  watching  the 
exterior  instead  of  the  interior  of  the 
building.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  watch 
ing  and  thinking,  endeavoring  to  account 
for  the  mysterious  opening  of  the  door, 
when  suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  a 
dull  red  light  filling  the  room,  and  then 
upon  the  wall  before  him  he  beheld  a 
sight  which  caused  his  heart  to  beat  wild 
ly  with  terror;  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his 
tongue  seemed  paralyzed ;  he  made  an 
effort  to  move,  but  found  it  impossible. 
Through  an  aperture  in  the  wall  he  could 
distinctly  see  the  hand  and  arm  of  a  hu 
man  being,  evidently  a  woman,  for  they 
were  of  exquisite  mould,  white  as  marble ; 
and  the  small  tapering  fingers  were  busy 


SPECTER  OF  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  45 

removing  the  panels  of  a  secret  door,  till 
a  space  was  vacant  sufficient  to  admit  the 
body.  Slowly  and  cautiously  the  appari 
tion  came  through  the  opening,  bearing 
in  her  hand  a  beautiful  lamp,  which,  when 
its  red  glare  shone  in  Duval's  face,  re 
vealed  to  him  the  countenance  of  the 
"Spectre  of  Chateau  De  Courcy."  To  say 
Achile  was  astonished  seems  foolish ;  he 
was  completely  dumbfounded ;  for,  with 
her  eyes  still  closed  in  sleep,  and  her  fair 
white  shoulders  hid  by  a  mass  of  long 
shining  hair,  there  before  him  stood 
M^lle  Sartorys,  her  face  as  white  as  the 
snowy  night  clothes  she  was  clad  in. 
With  a  noiseless  step  she  advanced  to  the 
door  and  removed  the  chair,  then  turning 
the  key  she  gently  swung  the  door  open. 
Duval  deemed  it  prudent  to  make  no 
movement  towards  awakening  the  fair 
sleeper,  and  permitted  her  to  leave  the 


46  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

room  unmolested,  which  she  did  by  means 
of  the  secret  door  in  the  wall.  Carefully 
the  unconscious  girl  replaced  the  panels, 
and  all  was  again  as  still  as  death. 

Morning  came  at  last,  and  how  joyful 
ly  Achile  welcomed  its  first  bright  rays. 
He  had  accomplished  what  had  been  con 
sidered  impossible,  but  at  what  a  cost! 
He  was  thoroughly  exhausted  and  very 
weak  from  excitement  and  fright.  At  the 
breakfast  table  he  met  M'lle  Sartorys, 
who,  in  answer  to  his  inquiry,  informed 
him  that  she  had  never  rested  better.  He 
thought  it  best  to \  keep  his  knowledge  of 
her  sleep-walking  a  secret,  until  it  should 
be  made  known  through  the  columns  of 
the  next  morning's  paper ;  and  when  M. 
Sartorys  asked  what  his  success  was,  he 
merely  replied  that  he  had  saw  no  spectre. 

The  particulars  were  soon  published, 
and  Duval  became  the  lion  of  the  hour. 


SPECTER  OF  CHATEAU  DECOURCY.  47 

The  problem  was  solved  at  last  and  he 
had  done  it.  Paris  was  satisfied,  Mons. 
and  Mme.  Sartorys  were  nonplussed,  MIPe 
was  at  a  loss  to  comppehend  its  meaning, 
and  Achile's  romance  was  ended,  and 
with  it  the  excitement  over  the  "Spectre 
of  Chateau  DeCourcy." 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT. 


A   PARISIAN  SKETCH. 


A  lovely  face.  The  expression  of  ten 
derness,  beaming  from  a  pair  of  large 
blue  eyes,  caused  George  Lesparre's  heart 
to  throb  wildly  with  admiration.  Vainly 
he  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  into 
the  belief  that  he  only  admired  the  beau 
ty  of  the  face  and  not  the  person  herself. 
He  flattered  himself  that  he  was  too  wise 
to  ever  imagine  Lucille  Chandoce,  beau 
tiful,  accomplished  and  heiress  to  a  world 
of  wealth,  ever  becoming  foolish  enough 
to  forget  her  station  in  life  and  bestow 
her  love  upon  a  poor  artist,  far  beneath 
her  in  rank  and  intellect.  uNo,  not  intel- 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  49 

lect,'1  he  argued  with  himself.  "I  am  cer- 
*tain  she  possesses  no  more  of  what  the 
world  pleases  to  call  learning  than  my 
self."  But  rank  rendered  impassable  the 
gulf  between  them,  and  as  he  permitted 
his  deep,  dark  eyes  to  wander  toward  her 
own,  he  felt  the  folly  of  ever  aspiring  to 
think  of  her  as  the  wife  of  a  toiling,  strug 
gling  artist  with  nothing  in  the  world  but 
an  education  calculated  to  create  hopes 
and  expectancies  impossible  ever  to  re 
alize. 

The  scene  was  one  of  rare  beauty,  such 
as  only  Parisians  delight  to  dazzle  the 
eye  with,  and  as  George  Lespare's  glance 
beheld  the  brilliantly  lighted  parlors  of 
Monsieur  Chandoce's  magnificent  man 
sion,  where  mingled  the  grandeur  and  el 
egance  of  a  Parisian  gathering,  he  won 
dered  why  he  was  permitted  to  be  pres 
ent.  However  unworthy  he  had  seemed 


50  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

of  Lucille  before  he  could  but  think,  as 
he  saw  her  courted  and  admired  by  all* 
around  her,  how  far  above  him  she  was. 
He  dared  not  approach  her  and  beg  the 
indulgence  of  a  mazourka  as  others  did, 
but  quietly  stole  away  into  a  deserted 
corner  of  the  drawing  room  and  endeav 
ored  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  in  a  vol 
ume  of  Dumas.  How  utterly  incapable 
of  doing  aught  but  eagerly  watch  the 
sweet  face  of  Lucille,  as  she  promenaded 
the  hallway  before  him.  He  began  to  ex 
perience  keenly  a  feeling  that  his  reserve 
and  silence  were  being  noticed  by  the 
guests,  and  he  wished  a  thousand  times 
that  he  could  frame  an  excuse  that  he 
might  leave  the  house. 

George  Lesparre  was  a  man  upon  whom 
nature  had  bestowed  that  faculty,  one 
rarely  encounters,  of  sincerity  in  every 
word  uttered  and  every  thought  of  his 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  51 

mind.  Giddyness  and  hypocracy  could 
never  be  traced  in  the  slightest  action  of 
his  life.  When  he  spoke  people  knew  he 
was  in  earnest.  Lucille  had  just  tinge 
enough  of  sentiment  in  her  nature  to  rec 
ognize  in  these  qualifications  a  man  whose 
esteem,  if  once  gained  could  never  be  al 
tered,  come  what  would.  She  knew  when 
he  told  a  woman  he  loved  her  it  was  with 
a  love  constant  as  the  changing  of  hours 
into  days,  days  into  years,  and  years  into 
eternity,  and,  as  she  thought  of  these 
things,  she  saw  how,  a  contrast  with  the 
many  admirers  around  her,  revealed  his 
invaluable  worth  as  a  man  and  a  friend. 
Cold  and  distant,  as  he  always  seemed  to 
her,  she  was  learning  to  love  him,  for  the 
more  she  saw  of  him,  the  more  she  found 
many  things  to  admire  in  his  upright,  hon 
est  character. 

"Monsieur   Lesparre,  you  seem  lonely 


52  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

here,  all  by  yourself,''  quietly  spoke  Lu 
cille,  as  she  ventured  into  the  drawing 
room.  He  looked  slowly  up,  with  a  smile 
which  Lucille  thought  more  of  sadness 
than  pleasure. 

"I  should  not  feel  at  home  in  there,  and 
I  do  here  by  myself,''  and  he  lowered  his 
eyes  to  the  book  again. 

Lucille  wraited  some  moments  for  him 
to  speak  again  and  when  the  silence  was 
becoming  awkward  she  said  pleasantly: 

"I  am  tired  of  waltzing  and  have  come 
to  you  for  a  stroll  in  the  conservatory, 
thinking  perhaps  I  might  dispell  your 
lonliness.  Will  you  accompany  me  ?" 

"With  pleasure,"  and  replacing  the  book 
with  a  carefulness  that  pleased  Lucille  he 
offered  her  his  arm  and  they  passed  out 
into  the  conservatory. 

"Why  do  you  so  persistently  avoid  me, 
Monsieur,"  asked  Lucille,  when  alone. 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  53 

He  stopped,  withdrew  her  hand  from 
his  arm,  and,  casting  a  look  full  of  earn 
estness  into  her  troubled  face,  said : 

uAh,  M'llle,  you  should  have  asked 
why  I  am  unable  to  make  myself  agree 
able  as  you  wish.  I  wi]l  tell  you.  I  can 
not  play  the  part  of  a  hypocrite  and  com 
pliment  the  frivolity  and  vanity  with 
which  I  am  surrounded,  thus  rendering 
me  an  object  of  dislike." 

"Monsieur  Lesparre,  I  abhor  flattery 
and  false  compliments  even  as  you,  but 
for  the  sake  of  society  I  am  constrained 
to  listen  to  it.  Surely,  whatever  your 
aversion  to  society  may  be,  it  should  be 
no  excuse  for  your  indifference  towards 
me.'1 

Something  like  a  sound  of  sadness  and 
reproach  seemed  to  characterize  her 
words,  and  the  drooping  head  and  tremb 
ling  voice  betrayed  her  thoughts  too  well. 


54  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

Lesparre  noticed  it  and  in  his  heart  he 
thanked  her.  When  he  replied  he  could 
not  conceal  the  thoughts  which  filled  his 
mind,  and  passionately  told  her  all. 

^Lucille,  I  love  you.  That  is  why  I 
avoid  you ;  and  I  dared  not  speak  for  fear 
of  betraying  myself.  I  know  the  folly  of 
loving  you,  and  fully  understand  the  great 
difference  of  our  positions.  I  know  I  can 
not  please  you  with  my  sober,  silent  ways, 
therefore  I  am  content  to  see  and  admire 
you  without  the  privilege  of  telling  you 
of  my  admiration. 

u()h  !  Monsieur.  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
spoken  of  this ;  it  gives  me  a  pretext  for 
telling  you  how  much  more  I  value  your 
nobleness  of  mind  than  the  light,  trilling 
customs  of  society,  as  does  every  woman 
with  one  spark  of  honesty  in  her  nature/' 

uAnd  yet  she  would  refuse  the  love  of 
such  a  niiin  !v  rapidly  responded  Lesparre, 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  55 

as  he  leaned  toward  her  to  note  the  effect 
of  his  words.  She  raised  her  head  and 
looked  straight  at  him  for  the  first  time 
and  firmly  said: 

"Never,  if  she  loved  him ! " 

"Dare  I  hope,  then,  that  you  would  not 
refuse  to  listen  to  me  if  I  would  ask  you 
to  become  my  wife.  Can  I  think  you 
would  overlook  my  poverty  and  grant  me 
one  word  of  encouragement.  Speak,  Lu 
cille,  and  tell  me." 

He  trembled  like  an  aspen  when  she 
looked  up  again,  this  time  her  face  pale, 
and  her  voice  low  and  quivering,  as  she 
answered : 

"George  Lesparre,  my  father  would 
rather  see  me  shut  forever  within  the 
walls  of  a  convent  than  the  wife  of  a  poor 
man,  but  for  all  that  I  love  you,  for  I 
know  you  are  good,  generous  and  kind, 
I  will  marry  you  in  spite  of  my  father's 


56  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

remonstrances,  if  you  will  brave  the  con 
sequences  with  me." 

The  world  never  before  seemed  half  so 
bright  to  George  Lesparre,  as  when  he 
leaned  tenderly  down  and  pressed  a  sweet 
passionate  kiss  upon  Lucille's  white  hand. 
Poor  Girl !  She  little  thought  of  the  mis 
ery  and  sorrow  she.  was  bringing  upon 
herself.  She  had  but  one  thought — her 
love  for  George — and  in  that  she  could  be 
happy  anywhere. 

With  a  heart  sad  and  sorrowful,  George 
listened  to  M.  Chandoce's  kind,  sympa 
thetic  refusal  of  his  daughter's  hand. 

'•It  cannot  be,  George.  Much  as  I  es 
teem  and  regard  you,  I  could  never  think 
of  Lucille  becoming  your  wife.  You  may, 
as  you  say,  love  her,  and  love  may  be 
very  pleasant,  but  money  is  omnipotent, 
and  therefore  indispensable,71  and  George 
knew  how  true  his  words  were.  "It  is 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  57 

better  you  go  away  for  a  time  to  Italy,  or 
Switzerland,  or  England,  where,  in  the 
pursuit  of  your  profession,  you  will  soon 
learn  to  think  of  Lucille  as  only  a  friend.1" 

"Oh !  Monsieur,  I  could  never  do  that. 
It  would  look  too  much  like  I  had  regret 
ted  my  action  and  was  eager  to  shut  Lu 
cille  forever  from  my  mind." 

But  Monsieur  Chandoce  was  inexorable, 
and,  at  last,  when  George  quit  the  house, 
he  felt  that  Lucille  was  farther  from  him 
than  ever. 

For  two  days  Lucille  waited  and  watch 
ed  for  the  coming  of  George  with  an  anx 
iety  tljat  almost  made  her  ill,  and  still  he 
did  not  come  to  tell  her  to  hope  one.  M. 
Chandoce,  perceiving  her  solicitude,  en 
deavored  te  urge  her  to  believe  that 
George,  seeing  the  error  of  his  conduct, 
had  departed  for  England  where  he  could 
drive  the  thoughts  of  herself  from  his 


58  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

mind.  She  tried  hard  not  to  think  him 
so  cruel  and  false,  but  when  one  evening 
there  came  a  letter  from  him  she  doubt 
ed  no  longer. 

"LUCILLE. — By  the  time  you  will  have  receiv 
ed  this  I  shall  be  far  away.  I  have  realized  be 
fore  it  was  too  late,  how  unsuited  we  are  to  each 
other,  and  I  quit  Paris  forever  to-night,  that  I 
might  aid  you  in  forgetting  one  who  could  only 
make  your  life  a  miserable  one. 

Regretfully,  GEORGE. 

It  was  all  over  now.  Henceforth  the 
name  of  George  Lespare,  a  few  hours  be 
fore  so  dear,  was  but  the  name  of  an  ut 
ter  stranger  whom  she  could  meet  at  any 
moment  and  dispel  from  her  mind  the 
next.  These  were  Lucille's  thoughts  as 
she  threw  the  fragments  of  the  letter, 
which  had  brought  so  much  pain  and  sor 
row  to  her  heart,  into  the  fire. 

Alone  in  his  room  George  Lesparre  was 
suffering  the  pangs  of  a  bitter,  bitter  life ; 
the  past,  dark  and  mournful,  haunting 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  59 

him  like  a  dream,  the  future  foretold 
naught  but  distress.  His  head  was  bow 
ed  and  in  his  hand  he  clasped  a  letter, 
murmuring,  as  he  gazed  upon  it,  not  words 
of  censure  but  words  of  compassion  and 
pity.  Lucille  was  false  to  him,  but  he 
loved  her  deeply  and  devotedly,  knowing 
as  he  did  that  she  was  lost  to  him  forever. 

"Why  did  I  allow  myself  to  speak  ?  I 
could  have  lived  on  in  happiness  if  I  had 
never  told  her  how  I  loved  her.  I  will  go 
away  as  she  requests,  and  wait  till  time 
effaces  the  memory  of  her  falseness." 

In  one  short  week  he  had  left  Paris,  the 
scene  of  the  happiest  and  the  saddest  mo 
ments  of  his  life.  He  wrote  Lucille  a 
long,  tender  letter  forgiving  her  and  ask 
ing  that  he  be  remembered  when,  as  the 
years  flew  past,  she  was  the  happy  wife 
of  one  whom  she  could  love  more  than 
she  had  him. 


60  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

*  *  *  #  *  * 

Along  the  almost  deserted  Rue  St.  Ma 
ry  walked  George  Lesparre,  once  more  in 
Paris,  after  an  absence  of  two  years 
abroad ;  long  and  weary  years  to  him  ; 
years  of  suffering  to  Lucille.  And  now 
he  has  returned  because  way  down  in  his 
heart  was  a  longing  to  see  Lucille,  which, 
try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  resist.  The 
silence  and  solemnity  of  the  night  were 
only  broken  by  the  deep  toned  bell  of  the 
grand  Cathedral  of  St.  Peter  as  it  rang 
out  the  hour.  A  moment  more  and  the 
great  organ  of  the  Cathedral  was  heard. 
How  solemn  the  music  sounded,  as  he  lis 
tened  to  the  strains  of  the  Sonata  from 
"Martha."  Some  strange  presentament 
seemed  to  guide  his  footsteps  to  the 
church  where  he  had  often  been  with  Lu 
cille,  and  urged  him  to  enter.  Slowly  he 
ascends  the  steps  and  enters.  The  sight 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  61 

which  greets  him  was  one  he  never  can 
forget.  It  seemed  to  stop  the  pulsations 
of  his  heart.  His  head  grew  dizzy  and 
the  room  appeared  to  swim  before  his 
eyes.  There  before  the  altar,  her  face 
pale  as  death,  robed  in  garments  white  as 
the  snow  covered  ground  without,  stood 
Lucille  Chandoce.  What  did  it  all  mean. 
Alas  !  the  appearance  of  the  Bishop  told 
him  too  well.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a 
ceremony  which  would  shut  Lucille  for 
ever  from  the  world.  A  ceremony  that 
would  close  before  her  the  doors  of  liber- 
tv  and  happiness.  Poor  Lucille!  Sick  at 
heart  with  herself  and  all  around  her  she 
was  soon  to  be  ushered  within  the  iron 
walls  of  a  convent. 

For  a  moment  George  stood  gazing  at 
the  scene  before  him,  and  then  in  a  voicfc 
tremulous  with  emotion  he  speaks,  scarce 
ly  knowing  why  he  does  so,  while  the 


62  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

eyes  of  all  within  the  church  were  turned 
towards  him. 

"May  heaven  bless  you.  Lucille,  false 
as  you  have  been  to  me/' 

The  voice,  the  face  of  one,  whom,  for 
two  years  she  had  striven  to  forget, 
brought  back  the  memory  of  the  moments 
when  he  had  told  her  how  he  loved  her. 
Her  brain  was  whirling ;  the  very  air 
seemed  to  stifle  her,  and  with  a  low  moan 
of  anguish  Lucille  sank  helpless  and  mis 
erable  to  the  floor. 

Tenderiy  they  placed  her  in  her  car 
riage  anc  conveyed  her  to  her  home. 

For  a  long  time  Lucille  lay  unconscieus 
and  when  at  last  she  slowly  opened  her 
eyes  the  physician  forbade  any  one  but 
the  nurse  entering  the  room. 

George  came  every  day  to  inquire  af 
ter  her,  bringing  with  him  flowers,  books, 
and  many  other  things  to  aid  her  in  pass- 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A  CONVENT.  63 

ing  the  weary  hours  away  How  his  heart 
bounded  when  they  told  him  he  could  see 
Lucille.  He  trembled  in  every  limb  as 
he  entered  the  room.  Their  eyes  met 
and  looked  the  love  that  neither  could 
speak.  Gently  he  kissed  her  as  she  look 
ed  up  with  a  smile  full  of  love  and  con 
stancy.  A 

"But,  Lucille,"  said  George,  when  their 
first  greeting  was  over,  "why  did  you  send 
me  this  cruel  letter?" 

"Oh !  George,  I  never  penned  that  let 
ter.  I  could  not  be  so  false  as  that.  Ev 
en  when  your  letter  came  telling  me  you 
could  never  see  me  again,  I  forgave  you, 
for  I  still  loved  you." 

"Never  penned  that  letter?"  asked  Les- 
parre,  in  astonishment.  "Then  there  must 
be  some  terrible  misunderstanding r 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
M.  Chandoce,  who  said  : 


64  PARISIAN    SKETCHES. 

UI  can  explain  all.  George,  I  am  a 
scoundrel.  It  was  I  who  penned  those 
letters  which  came  so  near  severing  your 
hearts,  I  was  mad  enough  once  to  think 
it  best  to  seperate  you  and  Lucille,  and 
for  that  purpose  the  letter  which  you  re 
ceived  was  written  under  my  directions. 
Your  reply  was  treated  in  like  manner 
ere  it  reached  Lucille.  But  I  have  suffer- 
ered  untold  misery  ever  since.  I  could 
not  be  blind  to  her  feelings,  and  yet  I 
dared  not  tell  her.  Lucille,  my  child,  can 
you  forget  the  past  and  forgive  me?" 

UI  would  do  anything  in  my  power  to 
make  you  happy  again,  and  if  forgivness 
will  accomplish  it,  there's  a  kiss,  dear 
papa,  to  seal  my  pledge  that  all  is  for 
given,"  replied  the  happy  girl,  as  she 
seated  herself  an  a  ottoman  at  his  i'eet. 

"George,''  continued  Monsieur,  UI  have 
wronged  you  deeply,  and  I  beg  your  for- 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  A    CONVENT.  65 

giveness  also.  I  will  do  what  I  can  to 
atone  for  that  wrong.  Give  me  your 
hand.  I  refused  you  the  hand  of  Lucille ; 
I  now  revoke  that  refusal.  Take  her,  and 
may  the  sorrow  which  I  brought  upon  you 
reap  only  happiness  add  contentment. 

Another  month  had  flown  past  when 
the  bells  of  the  old  Cathedral  St.  Peter 
rang  out  the  glad  welcome  of  a  new  life 
for  George  and  Lucille  Lesparre,  while  the 
sweet  tones  of  "Wedding  Bells  March" 
told  too  truly  the  story  of  their  happi 
ness. 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 


"Dumb  jewels,  often,,  in  their  silent  kind, 

More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman's  mind." 

SHAKESPEARE. 

GOLD!  This  was  the  bright  and  glitter 
ing  shrine  at  which  beautiful  Edna  Sey 
mour,  obeying  the  mandates  of  a  fashion 
able  society,  in  which  she  moved  as  the 
reigning  queen,  bowed  her  head  in  hum 
ble  worship.  Grace,  beauty  and  frivolity 
found  in  her  a  most  worthy  exponent.  A 
lovely  creature  whose  dark,  luminous  eyes 
betrayed  a  depth  of  passion  so  gentle  and 
yet  so  dangerous.  From  infancy  every 
thing  that  heart  could  desire  or  money 
purchase,  were  lavished  upon  this  fairy- 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE.          67 

like  being  who  found  in  them  the  value 
and  power  of  those  great  levers  of  this 
world's  opinion,  wealth,  luxury  and  ele 
gance,  and  now  that  the  time  was  fast  ap 
proaching  when  she  must  accept  one  of 
the  many  applications  for  her  hand  in 
marriage,  she  had  tutored  her  mind  to  re 
gard  money  as  the  first  consideration  of 
wedded  life. 

Proud,  haughty  and  willful,  no  wonder 
her  mind  shuddered  at  the  possibility  of 
-one  day  becoming  the  wile  of  a  penny- 
less  man.  Love,  the  ruling  passion  of 
some  lives,  wras  a  stranger  to  her  heart — 
a  heart  of  marble— dead  to  every  thing 
save  gold. 

Edna  was  an  orphan,  and  her  uncle  and 
aunt,  Sir  John  and  Lady  Winthrop,  upon 
whom  she  was  dependent,  always  urged 
the  necessity  of  a  wealthy  marriage,  pic- 
uring  to  her  the  sorrowful  life  spent  as 


68  EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

the  wife  of  a  commoner.  Give  up  the 
many  joys  and  pleasures  of  her  present 
home  for  the  toil  and  care  of  another? 
How  her  mind  revolted.  Ah  !  Edna  lit 
tle  dreamed  how  near  was  the  dawning 
of  the  day  when  the  folly  of  her  life  would 
appear,  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  great 
lesson,  which  was  destined  to  work  a  won 
derful  change  in  her  icy  heart  was  soon 
to  be  learned. 

Not  more  than  an  hour's  ride  from  the 
bussy,  bustling,  English  metropolis,  Lon 
don,  the  quiet,  little  parish,  called  Lawn- 
dale,  is  situated.  Lawndale  was  indeed  a 
lovely  place,  and  rightly  named  too.  Ed 
na  often  called  it  paradise,  and  truly,  with 
it  magnificent  gravel  drives,  winding  here 
and  there  through  the  trees  lining  the 
mossy  banks  of  a  murmuring  stream,  it 
reminded  one  of  that  enchanting  spot  so 
beautifully  described  bv  Milton.  Here 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE.  09 

was  the  home  of  Sir  John  Winthrop— 
"Winthrop  Place''  it  was  called — and  ad 
joining,  with  its  grand  old  estates,  stood 
Vivan  Hall,  half  hid  from  view  by  the 
thick  foliage  of  trees  forming  an  avenue, 
picturesque  and  romantic,  leading  to  the 
great  iron  gate  fronting  the  highway. 
Vivan  Hall  was  the  pride  of  Lawndale, 
and  frequently  had  Edna,  in  her  morning- 
rambles,  stopped  to  note  the  beauty  and 
elegance  of  its  surroundings,  always  won 
dering  if  the  young  heir,  when  he  came 
to -take  posession  of  his  inheritance,  would 
keep  the  doors  of  the  grand  old  building 
closed  against  tourists  and  visitors  as  did 
his  uncle,  Sir  Mortimer  Vivan.  Here  for 
years,  hermit-like  and  alone,  save  the 
presence  of  a  few  servants,  had  Sir  Mort 
imer  lived,  rarely  venturing  outside  his 
lonely  room-  Suddenly  one  morning  the 


70  EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

news  was  rung;  throughout  the  parish 
tli at  the  master  of  Vivan  Hall  was  no 
more.  It  was  only  too  true.  In  the  lon- 
liness  of  his  room  Sir  Mortimer  had  quiet 
ly  passed  from  earth.  The  old  hall,  it  was 
soon  learned,  reverted  to  a  nephew,  a 
stranger  to  Lawndale,  and  who,  after  com 
pleting  his  studies  at  one  of  the  English 
Universities,  would  come  to  his  new  home 
Jor  the  first  time.  This  it  was  that  turn 
ed  the  thoughts  of  beautiful  Edna  into  a 
strange  current,  as  she  stood  gazing 
through  the  trees.  Her  plotting  mind 
was  busy  at  work.  She  was  dreaming  of 
a  hope,  a  hope  which  sprang  from  the 
great  object  of  her  life,  that  one  day  she 
might  become  the  mistress  of  Yivan  Hall  ; 
the  thought  sent  a  thrill  of  determination 
tli  rough  her  mind,  and  she  was  slowly 
forming  a  resolution  to  win  the  the  heir. 
cost  what  it  mav.  True,  she  had  never 


EDNA    SEYMOUR  8    MISTAKE.  71 

seen  Walter  Fivan,  but  she  cared  little 
for  that.  Her  nature  taught  her  to  love 
his  money,  not  himself.  She  knew  well 
the  power  of  her  facinating  beauty,  but 
she  realized  not  the  bitter  ending  of  false 
expectations  which  its  blandishments 
were  fast  leading  her  to. 


Two  months  have  passed  since  the  death 
of  Sir  Mortimer,  and  the  smiling  summer 
days  slowly  fading  into  autumn,  brought 
many  changes  to  Vivan  Hall.  The  great, 
old-fashioned  paneled  doors,  which  for 
years  had  remained  closed,  were  now 
thrown  open  and  the  warm  sunlight  steal 
ing  in,  imparted  a  bright,  genial  appear 
ance  to  the  dingy  rooms  of  the  old  build 
ing.  Already  the  servants  were  busy 
making  preparations  for  a  grand  recep 
tion  of  the  new  master,  and  the  little 
parish  seemed  to  take  a  renewen  interest 


r2  EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

•in  the  coming  of  the  voting  heir,  who  was 
coming  on  a  visit  to  his  new  home  during 
vacation. 

Changes  had  occurred  at  Winthrop 
Place  as  well.  Sir  John,  Lady  Winthrop 
and  Edna,  according  to  custom,  had  gone 
to  London  to  spend  the  Winter  season, 
"for,"  said  Edna,  aLawndale  was  so  lonely 
during  the  Holidays." 

Edna  loved  society  and  at  the  many 
brilliant  reception  parties,  where  throng 
ed  English  nobility  and  fashion,  she  al 
ways  seemed  the  magnet  to  which  they 
were  drawn. 

The  turning  point  in  Edna's  life  was 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer.  A  fashiona 
ble  soiree  was  given  at  the  home  of  Col. 
Ellington,  a  wealthy  London  banker. 
Mere  Edna's  beauty  became  the  object 
of  many  admiring  eyes,  for  never  before 
had  she  appeared  so  lovely.  It  was  a 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE.  73 

very  brilliant  assembly  and  Edna  made 
many  new  acquaintances,  among  whom 
was  a  friend  of  Col.  Ellington,  Arnold 
Burdette  by  name,  then  visiting  relatives 
in  London.  Cold  and  distant  as  Edna  had 
always  seemed  to  every  one,  she  found  it 
impossible  to  be  so  with  Arnold.  From 
the  moment  their  eyes  met  they  seemed 
intimate  friends,  They  waltzed  together 
and  ever  and  anon  she  found  herself 
glancing  around  half  expecting,  half  hop 
ing  he  was  near.  Life's  path  had  sudden 
ly  taken  a  new  turning  it  appeared  to  Ijer. 
The  season  wore  on  and  still  Sir  John 
and  his  family  remained  in  London.  Ev 
ery  opportunity  found  Edna  and  Arnold 
together.  One  evening  as  she  sat  at  the 
piano,  idly  fingering  the  keys,  Arnold  ab 
ruptly  turned  the  conversation  and  in  a 
trembling  voice  said: 


74  EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

"Edna,  for  weeks  I  have  been  vainly 
trying  to  say  what  I  am  determined  to 
now.  I  have  come  to-night  to  ask  you  to 
be  my  wife.  I  am  poor  as  you  doubtless 
ly  know,  but  bright  prospects  are  before 
me  and  with  willing  hands  and  you  to 
toil  for,  our  future  has  no  shadow.*" 

Her  head  was  buried  in  her  hands,  and 
a  heart,  which  but  a  moment  before  had 
been  so  light,  was  now  aching  with  sor 
row.  It  was  a  fierce  struggle  between 
love  and  gold  with  her.  In  that  single 
sentence  "Will  you  be  my  wife?"  spoken 
so  tenderly  came  from  the  almost  buried 
thought  of  Walter  Vivan,  and  the  vow 
she  had  made.  She  loved  Arnold  Bur- 
dette  with  all  her  soul  and  mind,  but  she 
loved  Vi van  Hall  better.  At  last  she  look 
ed  up,  the  same  old  haughty,  cold  look 
upon  her  face  and  with  a  quivering  lip 
said  : 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE.  75 

"Arnold,  you  do  not  know  how  it  wrings 
my  heart  to  hear  you  speak  thus.  It 
grieves  me  worse,  if  possible,  to  say  it, 
than  you  to  hear  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  can  never  become  your  wife.  You  will 
think  me  the  incarnation  of  falseness,  ca 
price  and  selfishness  were  I  to  tell  you 
why.  You  say  you  are  poor.  Look  at  me 
now,  surrounded  with  every  luxury  imag 
inable.  Divest  me  of  these  claims  to  the 
respect  of  society  and  what  am  I.  A  per 
son  to  mocked  and  spurned.  I  am  de 
pendent  on  the  charities  of  my  uncle  and 
aunt,  while  you  are  no  better  situated. 
No.  Arnold,  wealthy  marriage  is  my  only 
hope,  aye,  it  is  the  object  of  my  life.  It 
is  better  that  we  part  and  learn  to  forget 
each  other." 

uEdna,  that  is  an  answer  prompted  by 
an  avaricious  nature,  and  not  by  your 
heart." 


76  EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

"Call  it  what  you  may,  it  is  my  answer.'- 

"  Fare  well  then.  You  reject  my  love 
because  I  am  poor  and  not  because  you 
do  not  love  me  in  return.  I  can  read 
this  in  your  eyes,  your  smile  and  your  ac 
tions.  Edna,  we  may  meet  again ;  till 
then,  adieu.r  He  was  gone. 

Edna  half  regretted  the  step  she  had 
taken.  She  could  not  bear  to  give  up  ail 
hopes  of  Vivan  Hall  and  yet  she  longed 
to  call  Arnold  back  and  at  least  tell  him 
that  she  loved  him,  poor  as  he  was.  She 
arose  from  the  piano  and  walked  to  the 
window,  while  a  feeling  of  sadness  and 
sorrow  began  to  take  posession  of  her. 
In  vain  she  endeavored  to  drive  all 
thoughts  of  Arnold's  pale  face  from  her 
mind. 

The  bright  spring  days  were  rapidly  ap 
proaching  and  the  Winthrops  were  pre 
paring  to  return  to  Lawndale. 


EDNA    SEYMOUR  S    MISTAKE.  i  ( 

•*  *  •#-  *  * 

Summer  had  again  rolled  'round  and 
Lawndale  was  anxiously  and  eagerly  await 
ing  the  arrival  of  Sir  Walter  to  take  pos 
session  of  Vivan  Hall.  Edna,  once  so 
desirous  to  see  the  young  heir,  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  interest  in  the  change  which 
the  Hall  was  soon  to  undergo.  The 
coming  of  Walter  Vivan  had  no  effect  up 
on  her,  and  when  the  invitations  to  attend 
the  reception  were  received  at  Winthrop 
Place,  she  expressed  a  desire  to  remain 
away. 

Lady  Winthrop  was  surprised  and  urged 
her  to  go,  and  plainly  hinted  that  Sir 
Walter  would  probably  look  for  a  bride 
among  the  assembly.  Edna  understood 
the  meaning  of  her  aunt's  allusion,  and 
suffered  herself  to  be  present. 

It  was  a  bright   moonlight  night  when 


78          EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

the  coachman  drove  to  the  gates  of  Win- 
throp  Place  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  Edna, 
pale,  trembling  and  silent,  with  Sir  John 
and  Lady  Winthrop,  was  on  her  way  to 
Vivan  Hall.  The  old  building  was  throng 
ed  with  guests,  filling  the  great  corridors, 
and  verandas,  and  in  a  few  moments  Edna 
was  to  be  presented  to  the  man  she  h*id 
once  vowed  to  win.  Why  did  she,  co 
quettish  and  merry  as  she  usually  was  be 
fore  she  knew  Arnold  Burdette,  now  re 
main  so  silent  and  reserved?  Her  face, 
now  as  white  as  the  robes  she  wore,  seem 
ed  more  beautiful  and  lovely  than  ever 
before. 

"Miss  Seymour,  allow  me  to  present  to 
you  Sir  Walter  Vivan,  the  new  master  of 
Vivan  Hal L  Sir  Walter,  Miss  Seymour. 'r 

"  Arnold  I" 

"Ednal" 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE.          79 

The  lesson  was  learned.  There  before 
her,  with  the  same  look  of  sadness  as  on 
the  night  she  refused  his  hand,  stood 
Arnold  Burdette. 

Arnold,  or  Sir  Walter,  was  the  first  to 
speak : 

"Edna,  we  are  still  friends  ;  at  least,  I 
hope?" 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  as  she  mechan 
ically  responded:  "Always  friends,  if  no* 
thing  more." 

They  passed  through  the  throng  of 
people  out  into  the  observatory. 

"  Here  we  will  be  unmolested  for  a  few 
moments,  Edna,"  said  Arnold,  as  he  offer 
ed  her  a  seat;  "  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
now  what  I  have  longed  to  since  that 
night,  the  memory  of  which  will  ever  be 
as  fresh  in  my  mind  as  1  know  it  will  be 
in  yours.  The  deception  I  practiced, 


80          EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE. 

while  in  Lbndon,  was  the  result  of  Col. 
Ellington's  devices  to  keeping  identity 
unknown  until  I  came  to  Vivan  Hall.  It- 
was  perhaps  foolish  and  unwise,  but  it- 
taught  you  to  love  me  for  myself  aud  not 
for  my  wealthy  position.  I  do  not  cen 
sure  you  for  refusing  me,  believing  as  you 
did  that  I  was  a  penniless  man  ;  for  I,  too, 
have  seen  poverty  and  love  go  through 
this  world  hand  in  hand  down  to  a  bitter 
grave.  Edna,  once  again  I  ask  you  to 
take  back  those  words  and  say  that  you 
will  be  my  wife." 

"  Can  you  so  forgive  me,  Arnyld,  as 
to  ask  that?"  was  Edna's  reply,  as  tears 
filled  her  eyes. 

44  Aye,  more;  I  can  forget.  Will  you 
not  recall  your  words"  ? 

Edna's  answer  brought  a  bright  joyous 
look  into  the  deep  blue  eyes  of  Arnold, 


EDNA  SEYMOUR'S  MISTAKE.          >1 

while  the    color    came    again   to     Edna's 
cheeks. 

Three  months  later,  Vivan  Hall  \va< 
the  scene  of  another  happy  ^itlierinir 
when 

"  T\v<>  souls  with  but  a  single  thought. 
Two  licarts  that  heat  as  one." 

And  Edna  was  Ladv  Vivan  after  ail. 


THE  HEART  BOWED  DOWN. 


In  the  Art  Gallery  of  Florence,  Italy, 
there  hangs  a  portrait  bearing  the  inscrip 
tion, 

"THE    HEART    BOWED    DOWN." 

The  portrait  is  that  of  a  young  and 
beautiful  girl,  whose  sorrowful  face  rare 
ly  fails  to  attract  attention,  and  excite  the 
sympathy  of  visitors.  The  interest  awak 
ened  in  the  painting  is  greatly  augmented 
by  reference  to  the  catalogue,  and  the 
name  of  a  once  promising  young  artist 
of  America  is  found  appended  as  the 
author,  whose  life  seems  to  have  been  a 


83  THE    HEART    BOWED    DOWN. 

hitter  failure  ;  as  the  following  history  of 
the  work,  written  by  the  artist  himself, 
would  indicate.  No  one  has  ever  been 
able  to  obtain  any  definite  information 
concerning  the  girl  referred  to,  other  than 
that  vouchsafed  by  the  artist.  It  is  sup 
posed,  however,  that  the  painting  was  ex 
ecuted  in  America  and  brought  to  Florence, 
together  with  the  accompanying  account 
of  its  production,  at  the  dying  request  of 
the  unfortunate  artist  : 

"  There  conies  a  voice  that  awakes  my  soul.  It  i<  the 
voice  of  years  gone  by :  they  roll  before  me  with  their 
deeds."— OSSIAN. 

Nature's  cold,  inanimate  touch  was 
fast  spreading  a  mantle  of  dreariness  over 
Oak  Dale  Cemetery,  as  I  stood  before  its 
great  iron  gate  ;  peering  through  the  rail 
ings,  my  glances  wandered  up  the  road 
way,  now  strewn  with  dead  and  withered 
leaves.  The  once  green  and  verdant  for- 


THE    HEART    HO  WE  I)     DOWN.  84 

est,  reaching  far  away  'till  the  summits 
of  its  lofty  trees  seemed  to  pierce  the  gray 
skv  overhead,  now  presented  a  view  bar- 
re  a  and  desolate.  Instinctively  I  closed 
my  eyes  that  imagination  might  again 
bring  to  my  mind  the  memory  of  sunny 
summer  days,  when,  beneath  the  luxur 
iant  foliage,  I  had  wandered,  a  little 
sketch-book  as  my  companion,  listening 
to  the  sweet  warbling  of  birds  as  they 
fluttered  to  and  fro  among  the  branches. 
But  as  I  looked  again  the  same  bleak  and 
gloomy  scene  appears.  Why  could  not 
nature  forsake  her  duty  and  leave  the 
world  to  enjoy  the  beauties  thus  destroyed  ? 
I  asked  myself,  as  my  hand  involuntarily 
grasped  the  gate  to  swing  it  open.  Alas  ! 
Man  and  nature  seldom  harmonize. 

Slowly  I  swung  the  ponderous  gate  on 
its  hinges,   and  I  stood  within  the  enclos- 


THE    HEART    BOWED    DOWN.  85 

ure,  J  p wised  and  shuddered,  so  impress 
ive  was  the  scene  before  me.  Trees,  flow 
ers  and  shrubbery  seemed  sharing  in  the 
death  sleep  of  those  who  had  passed  away 
from  earth  and  were  forever  laid  to  rest. 
The  white  marble  monuments,  staring*  me 
i  n  the  face  $  a  s  I  s  i  1  e  n  tl  y  p  a  s  s  e  d  u  p  1 1 1  e  a  v  e  - 
nue,  seemed  to  tell  the  story  of  dear  and  de 
parted  friends,  whose  last  resting  place 
they  marked,  that  life's  autumn  had  come 
too  quickly  for  them. 

Seating  myself  on  the  base  of  one  of 
the  many  beautiful  railings,  which  adorned 
the  cemetery,  I  drew  forth  my  sketch-book 
and  pencil,  while  my  eyes  drank  in  the 
magnificent  scenery  with  which  I  was 
surrounded  ;  scenery  that  no  artist's  hand, 
much  less  my  own,  could  ever  hope  to 
paint.  The  deep,  dark  ravine,  at  the  bot 
tom  of  which  a  little  rill  of  water  trickled, 


<Sf)  THE    HEART    BOWED    DOWN. 

with  its  rippling  music  over  its  pebbly  bed. 
Leafless  branches,  mosses  peeping  from 
out  a  thick  covering  of  yellow  and  purple 
leaves,  flowers  dead  and  dying,  clinging 
ivy  and  weeping  willows,  leaning  tenderly 
over  graves  now  sunken  with  age  :  all 
these  the  artist's  brush  could  paint.  But 
there  was  something  which  even  his  magic 
touch  could  not  produce  ;  something  that 
would  defy  his  inspiration.  He  could 
never  paint  the  still  lies  of  Death,  which 
reigned  supreme. 

For  a  few  moments  I  sat  in  thoughtful 
meditation,  when  J  was  suddenly  aroused 
from  my  reverie  by  sounds  of  a  footstep, 
and  the  rustle  of  leaves.  Hastily  looking 
up,  I  discerned  through  the  trees,  the  ap 
proaching  figure  of  a  woman,  clad  in  deep 
est  mourning.  Ah  !  thought  I,  some  sor 
rowing  friend  who  had  come  hither  to  pay 


THE    HEART    BQWED    DOWN.  87 

a  silent  tribute  of  respect  to  the  dead. 
Nearer  and  nearer  she  came.  Intent 
ly  gazing  at  the  ground,  she  hid  her 
face  from  my  view,  till  she  came  almost 
upon  me,  when,  with  a  startled  look,  she 
glanced  up.  Oil !  the  look  of  anguish 
which  she  gave  me  as  she  passed  !  How 
I  wish  I  could  paint  the  sorrow  which 
.shone  in  her  eyes.  Silently  she  passed 
on  down  the  avenue  of  trees.  Stopping 
near  a  newly-made  grave,  she  sank  upon 
her  knees  beside  the  little  mound  of  clay. 
Reverentially  she  clasped  her  small  white 
hands  before  her,  and  turned  her  face  to 
ward  heaven.  It  was  the  face  of  a  young 
girl,  just  budding  into  womanhood.  Tears 
now  tilled  her  eyes,  and  my  whole  soul 
went  out  in  pity  for  this  poor  creature, 
whose  sorrow  seemed  a  load  too  heavy 
for  her  young  heart.  Her  lips  moved 


8S  THE    HEART    HOW  ED    DOWN. 

devoutly  in  prayer.  Some  unseen  hand 
seemed  to  guide  my  fingers  as  I  traced 
the  outlines  of  her  delicate  countenance 
in  the  book  before  me.  With  a  few  strokes 
of  my  pencil  I  caught  the  expression  of 
devotion  that  shone  through  her  tears. 
I  saw,  I  saw,  I  heard  nothing,  but  the  ob 
ject,  the  object  before  me,  so  intensely  was 
my  mind  buried  in  thought  of  this  poor 
girl,  the  image  of  whose  face  seemed  to 
burn  itself  into  my  very  heart.  With  the 
rapidity  of  lightning  my  pencil  traced 
every  feature.  I  seemed  wrapped  in  a 
dream,  from  which  a  low  moan  of  anguish 
aroused  me,  and  looking  up  I  beheld  the 
grief-stricken  child  sink  to  the  ground, 
sobbing  bitterly,  as  though  her  heart  was 
breaking,  while  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Man  though  I  was,  I  felt  the 
tears  come  to  mv  eves,  and  as  I  arose  to 


THE    HEART    BOWED    DOWN.  89 

shut  the  sight  from  me  I  heard  a  voice  full 
of  woe,  choking  and  trembling,  cry  out, 
"Merciful  father  in  heaven,  why  hastthou 
thus  punished  me?"  I  could  bear  the 
sight  no  longer,  and  turning,  rushed  wild 
ly  down  the  avenue,  mentally  saying, 
"Can  such  grief,  so  pure,  so  deep  and  so 
mournful,  be  mortal?" 

Day  and  night  I  worked,  and  as  J  sat 
before  the  unfinished  portrait,  that  tear 
ful  face  seemed  to  haunt  me  as  a  vision  of 
some  dream.  How  I  longed  for  skill  to 
make  it  speak  those  pleading  words  which 
constantly  rang  in  my  ears,  "Merciful 
father  !  why  hast  thou  thus  punished  me?" 
Often  as  I  sat  and  gazed  upon  the  silent, 
speechless  picture,  I  almost  fancied  she 
was  near  me. 

Weeks  went  by  and  still  I  toiled,  till 
late  one  night,  with  aching  hands  and 


90  THE    HEART    BOWED    DOWN. 

throbbing  brain  I  laid  my  brush  aside. 
The  last  bit  of  paint  was  placed  upon  the 
canvas,  and  I  viewed  the  work  of  many 
weary  hours  finished  at  last.  During  all 
this  time  I  never  once  inquired,  even  of 
myself,  who  was  this  strange  creature 
that  preyed  so  upon  my  mind  ;  and  as  1 
now  looked  upon  her  portait,  a  yearning 
to  see  her  again,  to  speak  to  her,  to  tell 
her  that,  though  all  the  world  seemed  to 
turn  from  her,  I  alone  would  pity  and  aid 
her  in  the  hour  of  distress,  took  poses- 
sion  of  me.  I  fancied  I  could  see  her 
wandering,  lonely,  and  friendless,  through 
the  world,  with  no  one  to  whom  she  could 
turn  for  a  word  of  comfort.  My  thoughts 
seem  to  crowd  through  my  mind,  till  be 
wildered  and  impotent  J  sank  upon  the 
little  sofa  crying,  "My  God,  can  this  be 
pity  or  is  it  love  I" 


THE  HEART  BOWED  DOWN.      ML 

For  weeks  I  seached  the  city  ;  day  after 
day  I  wandered  through  the  cemetery, 
hoping  chance  would  again  guide  rne  to 
her  side.  To  hoped  seemed  vain,  to 
search  seemed  folly.  I  endeavored  to 
forget  her,  but  returning  to  my  studio 
her  portrait  recalled  the  scenes  I  tried  so 
hard  to  drive  from  my  mind  ;  and  in  dis- 
pair  I  sent  the  picture  to  my  parents,  in 
structing  them  to  preserve  it  till  I  could 
look  upon  it  without  a  thought  of  the  past. 
Time  rolled  on,  and  even  now,  after  ten 
long,  weary  years,  I  can  see  that  face  in 
all  its  sorrow,  as  it  creeps  into  my  mem 
ory,  while  a  voice  so  low,  so  sweet  and 
yet  so  mournful,  tinkles  into  my  ear  those 
sad  words,  "  Father  in  heaven  !  why  hast 
thou  thus  punished  me  !" 


t 


?3 


